Traditions Shmaditions
by darkmongoose
Summary: A short story about a Tremere known as Ghost, as he wakes and looks for food whilst recalling some recent events.


1 Traditions Shmaditions  
  
Ghost woke up from a deep slumber. He had been sleeping for many days, and felt awful. The first feeling to enter his body was from his head: boy did it hurt. Sleeping on a hard floor was not typically his style, but he had been desperate. Still, that Gangrel bastard wouldn't be rushing off to tell any of his friends about what had happened. Ghost had seen with his own eyes his enemy burn in agony as the sunlight covered his body. Technically, Ghost hadn't actually killed him, just wounded him heavily and neglected to move him into the shade as dawn arrived. He couldn't be blamed for absent- mindedness. Besides, a mighty Tremere vampire such as him shouldn't need to tend to little wolf scouts.  
  
The next feeling was hunger, and did it hit hard. Ghost had only been standing for a minute or so, but now he was back on the floor again, on all fours, struggling to stop himself going insane. He needed to feed. He needed sweet, divine blood to fuel his undeath. At this point he was so hungry, he would have to drain someone to the point where they would be defunct. Lucky Toreador. They had plenty of feed at their hands. But people didn't like Ghost. Whether it was his practice of dark magic, his greed, or the fact everyone around him seemed to be an idiot and he merely felt he should inform them of it, he wasn't the most popular person. But he didn't need friends to grant him favours. If he wanted something, he would get it himself, or make someone else get it.  
  
He left the small chamber, and onto the streets. At least it was night. The last thing he wanted is to rise from several days' sleep only to spend the day waiting in a small room as his hunger grew, just for that blasted ball of fire to get out of the sky. When he wanted fire, he would make it, and he would choose who would burn.  
  
The alley was just as scungy as his temporary sleeping hole he had just left.  
  
2 The Sixth Tradition: Destruction  
  
Thou art forbidden to destroy another of thy kind. The right of destruction belongeth only to thine elder. Only the eldest among thee shall call the blood hunt.  
  
Well, the Gangrel had asked for it. Goddamn hippies. He hated environmentalists. Go live in the forest if you think it's so great. But he didn't want anyone running to him for help when they are starving to death with only the occasional tramper to feed on, or getting beat up by werewolves. Silly fools. The city is where the prey is, embrace it.  
  
He had been strong but Ghost was armed. A knife may not be the deadliest of weapon, but when it's a deep stab wound compared to a bruise, the stab wound is generally going to hurt more. Although he had gotten stabbed during the fight, it was now completely better. And a slash across the eyes had blinded the fool, rendering him useless. Where's your wolf-like sense of hearing and smell now? I don't see you sniffing me out, or listening for my every move. I see you clutching your bleeding eyes.  
  
3 The Fifth Tradition: Hospitality  
  
Honor one another's domain. When thou comest to a foreign city, thou shall present thyself to the one who ruleth there. Without the word of acceptance, thou art nothing.  
  
He hardly wanted anyone to know he was in the city, the prince especially. He didn't know who it was, didn't even care, but there was a large chance that it was a bloody stuck-up Ventrue. At least the Gangrel did things themselves rather than asking everyone else to do it. Politicians? Great leaders? Behind every great Ventrue prince, there was a Tremere pulling the strings, telling him what to do, what to say, and how to do it.  
  
Walk up to the prince and announce that a treacherous magician, who has broken several of the traditions in one night, has just entered the city and plans to continue his current life (or death, for that matter) under his very nose? It's signing a death warrant. Ghost lived up to his name. No one knew how he got there, whom he was, what he was doing, what he wanted, and when it came round to it, where he went.  
  
He shuffled along and into the main street. His hair was messed up, his clothes were torn, and the rough nights hadn't helped his appearance. He was feeding on the scum of society tonight. There was no way he was getting into a club or any social meeting, so he was stuck feeding of alley-trash. He liked to have a certain sense of class, but food was food.  
  
4 The Second Tradition: The Domain  
  
Thy domain is thine own concern. All others owe thee respect while in it. None may challenge thy word while in thy domain.  
  
Ghost suddenly realised that the domain he had slept in had a previous owner. It had slipped his mind, but he now recalled slaying a Malkavian who was about to go to sleep there. He couldn't understand the fool's ramblings at the time, and with his fuzzy memory, blocked partly by starvation, he understood them even less. Why did society need such beings? Madmen. If it was his choice, their clan would be wiped out. Useless buggers, really. How they continue to create more of their kind was beyond him.  
  
So he had taken a domain and killed yet another fellow vampire. It didn't matter to him. No one would miss the fool. Even in wilderness, animals of the same kind will turn on each other over food and territory. And vampires were predators too; just a bit more sophisticated in the way they lived.  
  
The Third Tradition: The Progeny  
  
Thou shall sire another only with the permission of thine elder. If thoust createst another without thine elder's leave, both thee and the progeny shall be slain.  
  
He had no problem with this one. Underlings could never be trusted. He had proven it when he has killed his sire. Then again, he had been created without permission. Nonetheless, there were many vampires who broke this rule, or any of the others for that matter. It is how their population grew. And ones like him were how it stayed under control.  
  
Bums. Hobos. Tramps. Beggars. Call them what you wish, they are easy meals. Although he would have to work a little magic to separate one from the others. They were sitting around a fire. Soon, Ghost would be at full strength. Then he could continue his life. Drifting from city to city, manipulating or simply sneaking around, getting what he needed.  
  
  
  
I didn't include the first and fourth traditions because they didn't have much relevance to the story. 


End file.
